


Daddy's Lil Boy

by Rrrowr



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Stiles, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Father/Son Incest, Implied/Referenced Incest, Incest Play, M/M, Rimming, Sexual Fantasy, Top Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:29:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles misses his dad's beard. He's got a kink for it, it turns out. He tries not to think about it. Besides, he can't throw a dime without hitting a bearded guy these days anyway. So what if he focuses on them instead of what he really wants? </p><p>He takes what he can get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daddy's Lil Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eveningowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eveningowl/gifts), [mrsvc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsvc/gifts), [deathgetsusall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathgetsusall/gifts), [Werefoxes (imshakingyourconfidencedaily)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imshakingyourconfidencedaily/gifts).



> Eveningowl made a gifset of Linden with a beard and well. This kind of happened.

Stiles misses his dad's beard. He's got a kink for it, it turns out. Probably because of all the times he'd felt it against his skin, turning his back and ass red. He tries not to think about it — too many times telling himself that it was a fluke or maybe a dream. He can't throw a dime without hitting a bearded guy these days anyway. So what if he focuses on them instead of what he really wants? He takes what he can get.

It's Peter who really gets it, though. Everyone sees Stiles looking, but it's Peter who gets why. He's the only one who's probably old enough to remember that the sheriff had a beard once, years ago — back when he was trying to drink himself into an early grave and instead drank himself into his son's bed. It's Peter who is just amoral enough to bend Stiles over and eat him out until he's shaking because his ass is burning from shoving back against Peter's bearded face. If Peter hears him crying, "Daddy," under his breath, well... He just makes Stiles shout it louder.

"If you want something or someone," Peter tells him, "don't be ashamed of it."

It's the best advice anyone's ever given him for this, strangely, and Peter is more than happy to say the things the sheriff would.

"Easy now, son. You don't have to take it all at once," he says in a soft drawl as he slowly fills Stiles up with his cock. Peter sounds nice, is the thing — like he cares about what Stiles wants and doesn't want to hurt him. All the menace is gone from his voice. Even his touch is less proprietary, more comforting. It makes Stiles sob and whimper and loosen up enough to get Peter's dick inside. "Tell me how you want Daddy to fuck you."

Stiles gasps at the very idea because his dad has never — even when Stiles wanted him to, even when he asked for it... He tries to say so, but falters as Peter presses up behind him, too hot but just heavy enough. His cock is so deep that Stiles thinks he could feel it if he pressed against his belly. Peter starts off easy, fucking him in smooth strokes that make the breath hitch out of his throat, but soon starts moving with more strength. It's too much strength — a werewolf's strength. His dad would never...

"Too much," Stiles cries, reaching back to touch Peter's thigh. Peter slows down and then pulls back, and Stiles' panics. "Wait, don't leave me. Don't— Daddy, please!"

Peter shoves in deep all at once — too deep to be missed, so deep that Stiles settles at once with a hiccuped breath, murmuring nonsense. Shushing him, Peter fucks him in shallow circles, barely withdrawing before he's back where Stiles wants him, so Stiles is never empty or alone.

"You want your daddy inside you that bad," Peter whispers against his ear — voice wondering and sweet. "I bet he wants it too and is just scared to admit it."

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, panting as he remembers the last time his dad touched him like this, when he'd been loose and wet from his tongue and sprawled out on the bed. His dad had pressed his fingers all around his hole, like he was thinking about pushing inside. But his dad hadn't then and wouldn't in the months following, even if he'd do other things.

"You'd be perfect for him," Peter says. "You'd open up for him so easy, moaning when he fills you up." Stiles moans like he would if Peter were actually his dad, loud and pleased, and Peter grins against his shoulder and reaches up to cup Stiles' face, turning their mouths together. "Now, how would you kiss him?"

Stiles shudders and opens his mouth for Peter's tongue, kissing back desperately, fingers clasping at the back of Peter's neck. He makes noises through the kiss, deep gasps for air, soft whimpers in the brief seconds between kisses. Peter's hands stroke across his chest, petting his belly, scratching around his nipples, and Stiles keeps kissing him, trying to find the taste of whiskey and salt. It's not there, of course. Peter isn't his father. He doesn't drink alcohol and he didn't suck Stiles off. His dad would have. But Stiles wants his fantasy to be real so much that he looks for it anyway, keening as Peter's cock continues to shove into him.

"I want you to come like this," Peter says, so softly that Stiles can image those words being said by someone else. "Show me that all you need is to feel your daddy's cock inside you."

Stiles shivers so hard that he thinks he might tip over the edge just from those words, but he rides the edge instead, clenching down around Peter's cock and thinking about his dad filling him up so much that he wouldn't be able to get another finger in alongside. He thinks about his dad pressing his legs to his chest and kissing him and telling Stiles to come for him. He thinks about his dad coming inside him — bare, of course, and not just because Peter's not wearing a condom — and about his come making Stiles feel even more full. He thinks about that come leaking out of him, leaving him wet and dirty and hot. He thinks about his dad shoving his tongue in where his cock had gone, cleaning him up, working him open again — about his fingers and his teeth and his voice as he says that Stiles was good for him, so very very good.

And Stiles comes, sobbing while someone other than his dad fucks him through it.

Peter coming inside him is secondary, distant. It feels good though. It lets him imagine that his dad would feel like that, if he were here. When he stretches Stiles out on the bed after, Peter likes down next to him, looking curiously at Stiles' face.

Stiles figures he's red from crying. He certainly feels pretty miserable, considering how well he just got fucked. You'd think he'd feel better. Still, it was good while it lasted, so: "Thank you," he says.

"Any time," Peter replies and pets his fingers across the hair at Stiles' temple. He pauses. "You want him a lot, don't you?"

Stiles smiles a little. No need to guess who Peter's talking about. "Yeah. Always have."

"But this wasn't bad," Peter says, meaning the sex.

"It was good," Stiles tells him. It was nearly perfect. As close as they'd be able to get.

Peter slides his hand over Stiles' back, rubbing at his spine, dipping his fingers between Stiles' cheeks to feel his swollen entrance. Stiles pushes up onto his elbows and drops his head against his hands, breathing as Peter touches him, as one of his fingers eases inside. It seems ridiculous that he's already wanting again on the heels of his last orgasm, like his nerves aren't already shot to hell — like his brain isn't still fuzzy from thinking about his dad. But Peter's fingers are warm and they go in so smoothly. Stiles is happy to let Peter do all the work.

"Do you think his cock would feel better than this?" Peter asks.

"Yes," Stiles says, unsure of where Peter is going with this. Peter's fingers are pulling at the deep ache inside him. It's like he's constantly ready, constantly aching. If his dad walked in and told Stiles that they were going to fuck right now, Stiles would be prepped and ready for him, wet and open from all the times he's fingered himself while hoping for the opportunity.

"How big is he?" Peter asks. "Do you know? Have you looked?" Stiles has seen. He's looked. His dad has never been naked with him, but Stiles has seen him. He has the images in his head — in his heart. Peter hums. "How many fingers would you need to be loose for him?"

Stiles croaks out, "Gimme another." He hadn't realized how raw his voice had gotten.

Three fingers is perfect. It's just right. It's just enough that his dad wouldn't struggle getting in, but Stiles would still be tight for him.

"Are you going to come again like this?" Peter asks, and Stiles nods because he thinks he might. "I should send you home like this." Peter kisses his shoulder. "Send you back to him when you still have my come inside you. I should put marks on you so that he knows."

Stiles shifts uneasily as Peter's words change the fantasy going on in his head. His dad seeing hickeys on his throat and knowing what Peter had done to him, is still doing to him right now.

"Do you think he's the jealous sort?" Peter asks. Stiles shakes his head no because he's never known his dad to be possessive over anything. Peter just huffs a laugh. "I bet he is and has just never had to be. After all, he's all you have, isn't he? Even your crush on Lydia was never going to amount to anything. Both of you knew that, but he checks anyway, doesn't he?"

It's all true, what Peter's saying. His dad does ask about Lydia, though he never interferes. Maybe Peter's right. Maybe his dad is scared — too scared to do more than he has and too scared to admit that he wants to. Meanwhile Stiles is here, resorting to Peter and his words.

"I bet he'd see my marks and wish he was the one who had put his mouth on you instead," Peter says and rocks his finger deeper than before. "I'd bet he'd want to know exactly who he was jealous over. You can tell him it was me, so he'd know that you like your men older and experienced. Just like him."

Stiles bites his lip and draws one of his legs up. Peter's fingers push inside him all the way to the knuckle, and he moans, "Peter..."

Peter rumbles and kisses his shoulder again, pleased. "I wonder what he'd do with that information. Maybe he'd wait to see if it was true. Maybe he'd follow you," Peter suggests, mouth opening over the curve of Stiles' bicep to bite down and suck, leaving behind red red skin. The first of the marks that Peter threatened to give. Stiles shivers when he looks at it, thinking about his father seeing it. Peter pushes up higher onto his elbow, moving his lips across Stiles' shoulder blade. "He'd see me kiss you. See me touch you." Peter bites him between sentences. "I could leave the windows open next time."

"So he could watch?" Stiles asks, hissing as Peter bites down hard, making his skin ache and tingle. He hopes it bruises.

"So he could watch," Peter confirms. "And so he could know what he could be doing to you, instead of me." Peter inhales at the side of Stiles' neck, kissing at his jaw, then at his ear. He says, "Actually, do you know if he's home now?"

Stiles gulps down a mouthful of air. "No?"

Peter bites his earlobe and growls, "Where's your phone? Call him. Ask him where he is. Tell him you want to see him."

"My jeans," Stiles says, looking for them. He doesn't know why he feels eager. This feels stupid. It feels scary - mortifying, terrifying.

Peter leaves the bed to get Stiles' phone and Stiles watches him search the pockets for it, feeling empty and excited all at once. The phone gets tossed to the head of the bed, and Stiles picks it up, searching for his dad's number and expecting Peter's fingers to return. He doesn't get Peter's fingers. Instead, as the phone rings and rings in his ear, Peter tucks up between Stiles' legs and slides his cock inside him again.

Stiles twists to look at Peter and hisses, "What are you doing?"

"Fucking you while you're on the phone with your dad," Peter says evenly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm going to make you moan for him."

Stiles slumps against the bed, trying to keep the phone next to his ear. He holds his breath when he hears his dad answer, "Stiles?"

"He-hey, dad," Stiles says, voice catching as Peter starts to move. Peter hadn't quite been hard a few minutes ago, and as Stiles clenches reflexively around him, he can feel Peter stiffening inside him. It's bizarre how much he likes it. "What's going on?"

His dad talks briefly but Stiles barely hears the words. His has his father's voice in his ear and a cock in his ass and weight pressing in and around him and he feels like it's his father fucking him, leaving him straining against the sheets, trying to be quiet.

"Are you okay, Stiles?" his dad asks. "You sound out of breath."

"Oh, I'm fine," he says. Behind him, Peter shakes like he's laughing. "I'm good. It's nothing."

"Are you sure?" his dad says, and Stiles can hear him thinking about werewolves, the supernatural. "It's nothing... dangerous, is it?"

Stiles laughs, wondering if Peter counts as dangerous now — when he's fucking Stiles so good, when Stiles has his back to him. When he's confessed a half dozen things that Peter could use against him so easily.

"Tell him you were thinking about him," Peter says.

Stiles' breath hitches. "I'm fine," he assures his dad. "I was just thinking about you, is all."

"That's sweet, son," his dad says — the perfect, fond companion to the way Peter pushes his hips to the bed and buries himself inside.

"When do you get off work today?" Stiles asks, unbidden. Peter rubs his thumb at Stiles' hole, pulling it open just a tad more. Stiles pulls at his own hair, trying to ignore how stretched he feels, how full.

"Soon," his dad answers. "Shouldn't be more than a couple more hours until I'm back in town. Did you want to do something tonight?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, both for his dad and for Peter.

"Okay then," his dad says. Stiles can hear his smile, his happiness. "It'd be good to have some personal time with my kid."

"Just like old times," Stiles says, hoping that will be enough to make his dad remember. The way he used to touch Stiles. The way he used to lick him open and suck him off when he was too drunk to remember why he shouldn't.

On the other end of the phone, his dad seems to hesitate — message received. "Sure," he says. "Just like old times."

Peter's cock is an insistent presence inside him, shoving at his raw nerves, filling him up, making it hard for him to breathe and think. It makes it hard for him to talk. Stiles is trying so hard not to make a sound, trying so hard not to let his dad know that he's being fucked. It makes him silent for too long. His dad sounds concerned when he asks if Stiles is okay, as if he's doubting that Stiles would tell him even if he was.

"I'm fine," he tells his dad again. 

"Tell him that you want to see him," Peter says.

"I just want to see you," Stiles echoes, obedient.

"Tell him that you've been missing him," Peter says and Stiles does, stammering over the words. "Moan for him."

Stiles does moan — a little brokenly as he tries not to do as Peter tells him — and when he tunes back into the phone call, his dad is saying his name with real worry around his words. "Stiles? Stiles, I'm coming home right now."

"No—"

"What would you call him in bed?" Peter asks as he fucks harder, huffing his question against Stiles' shoulder, opposite the phone.

Stiles cries out, "Dad!" — and quickly adds, "It's okay. Don't worry. I'll be home when you get here."

"You'd better," his dad says firmly, sounding stern and perfect. "I'll see you soon."

Peter pulls back at little as he comes, and this time Stiles knows he feels it. Not the fullness from before, but the pulse of Peter's cock at his rim as it spills shallowly into his body. "So you'll be wet for him," he explains after Stiles has hung up. "I want him to see how used you are."

"What if he doesn't like it?" Stiles asks, rubbing his fingers over the blank screen of his phone.

"He won't like it at all," Peter tells him, "but he'll want to get you cleaned up. He'll want to see for himself that you're okay." He grunts, shoving his still-hard dick inside Stiles one last time before pulling away completely, dropping to the bed on his back. "And while he's taking care of you, you'll tell him that you wanted it but it wasn't enough."

"Not enough?" Stiles raises a brow.

"Well I know I'm good, but I'm not what you wanted, was I?" Peter asks, like he knows — like he could possibly understand what it was like to want someone you couldn't have.

"Yeah," Stiles agrees. It's the truth. Even if it's hours away, even if Peter had fucked him so much that he couldn't possibly think of sex again... Even if the erection he still has pressed against the bed goes away between now and then, if his dad is touching him, Stiles will get hard all over again. He leans into Peter's shoulder and tucks his fingers against his elbow. "What if he doesn't want to touch me anymore?"

Peter kisses the top of his head, sounding tired. "Then come back to me. I'll touch you. I'll fuck you until you can't think about him."

"Like today?" Stiles asks, smiling a little.

"Not quite like today," Peter says.

"Okay," Stiles says, taking a deep breath to prepare himself. "Okay, I can do this."

Peter hums. "You can," — then he jolts as an idea seems to occur to him. "But before you go—"

He reaches for his bedside table and opens the drawer. Stiles doesn't see what he has in his hands when he comes back, but he feels Peter spreading his cheeks apart with one hand and then pushing something inside him. It's tapered, whatever it is, narrowing sharply when it settles in, and Peter pats his ass affectionately when he lies down again.

Stiles reaches back to feel at his hole. "Is that...a plug?" he asks, brows twisting together as he feels around the hard base that presses flat against his skin. "Did you plug me?"

"So you'll still be loose when he gets home," Peter says. "That way, if he wants, he can fuck you without having to wait."

Stiles shifts, feeling the plug move inside him, stiff and unyielding. It's very different from a cock, but also, not as big. Weird, but Stiles can roll with it. When he tries to sit up, though — pushing up on his arms, intending to get his knees under him — he has to stop to breathe. The plug had dipped sharply with his movement, pressing heavily against his prostate.

Peter seems amused by his struggle. "Fun, isn't it?" he says.

"How am I gonna drive home like this?" Stiles demands, irritated, looking down the length of his body to where his cock is still hard.

"Slowly, I'd imagine," Peter says. "Wouldn't want you getting into any accidents before your father sees you."

Peter doesn't kiss him before he leaves, but he helps Stiles get dressed again and watches him from the doorway, smiling as Stiles gingerly walks to his car and eases into the driver seat. He waves as Stiles turns the engine, and Stiles hates him. He hates him so much.


End file.
